The Guests at the Wedding of River Song
by Khashana
Summary: In which not only time, but all of reality collapsed, including all my favorite fandoms. Gigantic crossover of Doctor Who, Torchwood, Battlestar Galactica, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Harry Potter, Sherlock, Star Trek, the Avengers, etc. Guest writers accepted. Please read the A/N for full explanation. Crackfic. Slash, swearing.
1. Jack Controls Galactica

A/N: PLEASE read first!

So this is new and completely different from what I'm used to. Basically, the idea is from Doctor Who's The Wedding of River Song, in which time breaks down and all time is running simultaneously, stuck at a single point. We're talking Cleopatra meeting with Hitler and going to the World Trade Center wacky. So. I'm thinking, due to the intricate relationships between time, space, and reality itself as suggested by the wonky things that happen close to light-speed, and the highly improbable things calculated to happen at light-speed and beyond: what if not just time, but reality itself broke down? All possible universes converged at once? There are infinitely many possible universes, including all of our favorite fandoms and every fanfiction AU of those fandoms. So this story is a series of drabbles and oneshots about all my favorite characters from all my favorite fandoms in the most massive crossover, set when the world was going to pieces. I'll be happy to take ideas, prompts, pairing requests, pretty much anything goes. In fact, if you really want to guest write for this story, I will consider it, condition being that it goes here, not on your profile, and I have full and final beta privileges. I would of course credit you.

**Rules:** Nothing too close to what's actually going on in the episode (unless you want to write it, I'm not going to). I'm keeping it T-rated for action violence. Space/time is collapsing, so there have to be multiple oddities going on at any one time, this is not just a place to dump random crossover fics. I will only write for fandoms I know. I will warn you at the beginning of each chapter what fandoms get prominence, so you know if you want to skip a chapter. And only characters that have been significantly altered by time travel, moving outside universes, that kind of thing, are aware of it being an alternate reality. That means the Doctor, any incarnation of the Doctor, remembers what things are supposed to be, because he's a Time Lord and that's how Time Lords see the universe. Same goes for any other Time Lords that show up for some reason. River knows because she's at the epicenter of it. Amy, and by extension, other companions with significant exposure to Void and the Crack and things (I'm thinking Jack and maybe Donna and Martha) are aware that it is an alternate reality, but without a clear memory of what things are supposed to be (remember, Amy didn't know Rory was her husband). Anyone with some connection to the Doctor is likely to be trying to get something concrete done, but anyone else is probably just watching and thinking everything is awfully weird (think Churchill). Any fandom or character can appear more than once in various capacities—for example, in one chapter Jack runs the Battlestar Galactica, but in another, he'll be back in Torchwood.

**Primary cast fandoms**: Doctor Who/Torchwood, Harry Potter, Star Trek, Sherlock, Battlestar Galactica, Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel, Firefly, Avengers, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Listed as a cross with BSG because of the list of ideas I have, it came second in number of times it cropped up.

**Warnings:** War violence. I watch so many shows with ships that have a lot of weapons. Or shows with a lot of weapons period. Non-canon relationships, including a hefty dose of slash. Swearing.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the fandoms that make appearances in here, and neither does anyone else who writes for this story.

* * *

In Which Jack Controls Galactica

Main Fandoms: Doctor Who, Torchwood, Battlestar Galactica

Making a Guest Appearance: Star Wars, Harry Potter

This one is for SnarkyHunter, who gave me the idea about River and Jack.

* * *

Vipers circled the pyramid they knew only as Area 52. They all stayed in protective formation, but one was practicing flips as it went.

"Hot Dog, quit fooling the frak around," crackled his intercom.

"Sure thing, Starbuck," replied the viper pilot, and, true to his word, returned to flying his miniature ship in a straight line.

"You can do flips when you're off duty," continued Starbuck, apparently feeling guilty about curbing Hot Dog's fun. It wasn't as though anything had been happening. But any such feelings were quickly put aside when she noticed something on the ground.

"Galactica, Starbuck. I've got a visual, but not sure what it is."

"Starbuck, Galactica," said the young man on the other end of the comm. "What's it look like?"

"White centurions is the closest I can think of," said Starbuck, flying momentarily closer to get a better look.

"That'd be a nice change," mused the man. "Instead of this silver, silver, silver. And skinjobs are all the same twelve models, no variation at all."

"Stop fooling around, Ianto, and get me Actual."

"Yes, sir," said Ianto, and transferred the call to Jack.

"Galactica Actual. Starbuck, can you send us some pictures?"

"Already on their way, Commander. What do you make of these?"

"Well, they're not exactly the most attractive things I've ever seen, but I've definitely seen worse. Ianto's got a point about the variety."

"Commander, if you and your boyfriend don't stop waxing poetic, I'm flying this bird right back in and coming up there."

"And what makes you think I'd be so unhappy to see you?" asked Jack, grinning at the pilot he couldn't see as he checked several displays. "Fine. Instruments giving you nothing, huh?"

"Nothing that couldn't mean a hundred things. They're marching on the pyramid."

"Tosh, get Pond on the horn," said Jack.

"Yes, sir," said Toshiko Sato, quickly typing something into her console.

"Pond, Galactica," said Jack. "I'm sending you some pictures. These your guys?"

"No, please shoot them," came the answer.

"That's very harsh. I like that in a woman. Say, when this is all over—dinner?"

"I'd explain about 'when this is over' but I might cause another crack in the universe, so let's leave it at 'no,'" replied Amy. "And if you don't want to shoot them, at least get them to go away. That is what I hired you for."

"And right you were, Madame Pond. But somehow I don't think I'll be disappearing with the rest of these fine folks, so just know the invitation's always open."

"Closed, but why?"

"Ask the Doctor about me," said Jack, with far too much suggestion in his voice for it to be real. Then, thankfully, he dropped the affectation and said, quietly enough for no one but Ianto and Tosh to hear, "I've been dealing with space/time a lot longer than you have. I know this isn't how things are supposed to be. But I want to know how you know."

"Crack in the universe. Ask the Doctor about me."

The line went dead.

"Cheeky woman," said Jack, staring at the handset.

"You did provoke her," said Ianto.

"You, be quiet or I'll take your stopwatch away."

Ianto tried to comply without looking as though he was, which only caused Tosh to laugh at him.

"Commander!" Starbuck's voice brought them back to reality. "They're getting too close for comfort. Orders?"

"Athena, Galactica. Fly low and shoot a warning blast."

Athena complied, firing across the space the white centurions were about to march into.

"Galactica, Athena. They've stopped, sir." Athena fiddled with her instruments. "Hang on—I'm getting something. A transmission. Sir…they say we have the droids they're looking for." She paused. "What the frak are droids?"

"Reply on their frequency. Standard warning. Back off or be killed."

Athena relayed the message. A moment later, several of the white centurions raised their guns and fired, rocking the viper. Starbuck flew down and took Athena's flank without being told, followed quickly by Helo.

There followed some heavy firefighting, since most of the other vipers stayed put ("Could be a distraction") , but the three pilots were some of the best in the fleet, and they managed to dodge a heavy percentage of the fire.

"Helo, distract them!" yelled Starbuck. "I'm going around back!"

"You're terrible wingmen!" Athena shouted back, but she was managing fine on her own. Starbuck had successfully got around the white centurions and was pelting them with ammo.

"It's working! They're scattering," she called. Indeed, those of the enemy left standing were making off into the distance.

"Good job, everyone. You three, come on in," said Jack. The three ships turned and flew toward their mother ship, the Battlestar Galactica, which opened a port for them to fly into and land. Back on the deck, Chief Tyrol checked the vipers and set his crew to make some minor repairs. The pilots, temporarily off duty, headed back to their rack to catch a few hours sleep. Two boys leaning against the wall in the corridor watched them go.

"Helo would be a Gryffindor," said the one with messy black hair and glasses.

"Oh, yes," agreed his companion, a blonde with silver eyes. "Starbuck, too."

"Athena…Ravenclaw?"

"You only think that because she reminds you of Cho," said Draco scathingly. "She's a Hufflepuff."

A black-haired man in a lab coat came down the corridor, apparently talking to himself.

"What about Baltar?" said Harry. "Ravenclaw? He is a scientist."

"Wrong again. Slytherin," corrected Draco.

"Right," nodded Harry. "Slytherin all over. Dualla?"

"Hufflepuff. Sato, Ravenclaw. Jones?"

"Um. Could be any of them, really. He's so reserved."

"I say another Slytherin, unless he's got Ravenclaw tendencies we haven't seen yet."

"Well, we haven't seen him fighting for the Commander, yet, either. He could be a secret Gryffindor."

"Or a Hufflepuff with above-average intelligence. What about the Admiral?"

"Adama? Gryffindor. The Commander?"

"Harkness? He's a tough one. I'd almost say another Slytherin. Maybe Gryffindor."

"Not such a heavy line, is it?" asked Harry, and leaned over to kiss him.

Meanwhile, far below in the pyramid so recently beset by Stormtroopers, a redhead with an eye patch was talking to a man in a tweed jacket and bow tie.

"So, what about Jack Harkness?" The man in the bow tie gave a violent shudder.

"No. Just no. He's not your type."

"I wasn't! I just want to know—"

"Don't mention Jack," interrupted the Doctor, "when River is within a ten-metre radius."

"Why?" Amy Pond crossed her arms in the way that meant she was about to be stubborn.

"The world might implode," said the Doctor, and stalked off in the opposite direction before she could argue.

* * *

Thanks for reading! I hope I did the Stormtroopers all right, all the Star Wars knowledge I once had has leaked out my ears.


	2. Angel Has a Normal Day

A/N: Bit more description this time, for those not BtVS/A acquainted.

Warnings: Kind of spoiler-y for final season of Angel, but if you just assume everything happening is due to collapsing reality, you won't know which is actually part of Season 5.

* * *

In Which Angel Has a Normal Day

Main Fandoms: Angel, Doctor Who, Torchwood

Making a Guest Appearance: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, X-Men, Sherlock, Battlestar Galactica

* * *

A man walked through the corridors of a building. The inside of the building was mostly white, with a lot of open space, and gave the impression of trying to appear much more innocent than it really was. The man had pale skin, unkempt hair, and a swoopy black leather duster, and gave the impression of having "tall, dark, and brooding" down to an art form.

The building was, technically, a law firm, and the man's name, not so technically, was Angel.

Angel approached a young, blonde woman at a reception desk, who gave the impression of an overexcited poodle. The young woman's name was Harmony, and she, like Angel, was a vampire.

"Harmony! What's happened since yesterday?"

Harmony stepped out from behind the desk and hurried to follow Angel.

"Nothing much, really. Willow stopped by."

"Willow was here?"

"Well, not here, so much as on the roof. There was this other chick with wild blowy hair and this really blank expression and telekinesis, and a guy with hair worse than yours and claws, who kept calling her Jean, but Andrew was here with Willow, and he called her Dark Phoenix."

"Andrew, too? Is he gone, yet?"

"Yeah, they left a couple hours ago. Anyway, Wil and this Phoenix lady were battling it out on the roof, but Willow won and they left as soon as they got the claw guy to stop staring forlornly down at Phoenix's body. I mean, what is it with you dark broody guys and staring forlornly at people?"

"Focus, Harmony."

"Right. And there's been a rash of tally marks, so watch out for those, and a whole bunch of people with eyepatches want to see you as soon as possible."

"Pirates?"

"No, another couple of redheads. We seem to be having a rash of them, too, what with Willow and Phoenix."

"What about the tally marks?"

"Oh, they just randomly show up on people's arms and faces, and nobody knows how they're getting there. But Fred ran some tests and they don't seem to be doing anything."

"Okay. Any word from King Tut?"

"He promises to stop eating people if we give him a llama."

"Really?"

"Yeah. So I had the contract made up and it's waiting on your desk. I figured it was safe to assume that you'd find him a llama." There was a pause, and Harmony said nervously, "Unless you think that's too much of a concession? Should I negotiate for an alpaca?"

"No, no, llama's fine. Willow leave anything besides more bodies?"

"She wanted to know if we'd heard from Lafayette or Bourgoine."

"And did you tell her?"

"I said we were still waiting to negotiate with Darwin."

"Good. Has the sociopath genius seen sense yet?"

"No, but Torchwood has, and Buffy's offered to threaten him with a stake if he doesn't cooperate."

Angel smiled. They had reached his office.

"If that's all…"  
"Yep! Couple packages and letters; I left them on your desk."

"Give me an hour, and send the eyepatch people in."

"Yes, sir!" Harmony saluted enthusiastically but badly, and left Angel alone. He sifted through the mail, sent one letter to Runes for opening instructions, laid several crosses (carefully handled with gloves) on top of another, and disposed of the rest. He checked a magical feed. A teenage boy was sitting in his room, apparently having an intense conversation with a small child. Angel pressed the buzzer.

"Harmony, who's talking to Connor?"

"Her name's Hera; apparently she's an impossible child, too."

"Ah. Why?"

"Half robot."

"Hm. That's new. Did you get Fred on it?"

"No, she seems harmless."

"So do you."

"Hey! But point taken. Shall I message her, or do you want to do it?"

"Message her, please. And can you call Torchwood and patch it through to my line?"

"Yes, sir."

A moment later, his phone buzzed and he picked it up.

"Torchwood, Buffy Summers speaking," said the woman on the other end.

"Hi, it's me," he said. "Just wanted to check in. And let you know I can do my own threatening."

"I know, Mr. Pointy Teeth. Just thought I'd do you a favor. See if I ever do it again."

"How's the Rift?"

"Fluctuating. Nothing we can't handle."

"Okay. Say hi to Jack for me."

"Will not. You and Jack are even worse than you and Spike."

In the background, he heard a male voice calling, "Who's on the line?"

"Angel," Buffy called back.

"Excellent. Tell him I'm on my way over."

"Why?" Buffy whined.

"Business. You keep an eye on Ianto, I'll keep an eye on Angel."

"That's different. Ianto couldn't be less interested in me."

"I don't think you know Ianto as well as you think you do."

"I object to this discussion of my personal life," came yet another voice, this one rather more Welsh than the others.

"Gotta get back to work," said Buffy. "Owen's asking for a throttling."

"I thought that was Jack's job?"

"Ianto objected."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

A few minutes later, Jack strode into the office without knocking, followed by two men who looked startlingly similar, though one's hair was brown and the other's blonde, and while one wore a long black coat, the other wore a red jacket.

"Jack," Angel said in greeting. "Spike. And you are?"

"Captain John Hart. This one's pretty, Jack."  
"Hands off," ordered Spike.

"Ooh, someone's touchy," teased John.

"Did you want something?" asked Angel.

Just then, a man with brown hair sticking up everywhere, dressed in a suit, Converse, and a long brown coat, burst in through the door, followed by a distressed Harmony.

"You can't just walk in, you need an appointment! I need your name, species, home location, and reason for visit before I can give you a number."

"Doctor, Time Lord, Time And Relative Dimension In Space, emergency. Now please go away, I need to talk to Angel, why have you all got to be psychically trained? I could have been done already."

"You said all that already, the only part I understood was emergency. Doctor who?"

"Emergency?" said everyone else in the room. Angel and Jack said it worriedly, while John and Spike said it hopefully.

"Tally marks! Eye patches! Time's gone all wimey and I can't interfere because I'm already dead! I can't understand what I was thinking because it isn't me but still! My past wife's gone and refused to kill future me, which was a fixed point in time, so everything's disintegrated, and if we don't reverse the process right now, everything'll go blibbery!"

"I rather doubt that's a scientific term I haven't heard of," said another man, pushing past Harmony rudely and causing her to yelp. This man was also pale, with dark hair and an excellent coat, but his hair was curly, his coat was wool, he wasn't a vampire, and he was followed closely by a small blonde man. "But considering the supernatural nature of my work, I'll make allowances."

"Very generous of you, Sherlock," said the small blonde man.

Harmony, having realized she would not understand a word anyone was saying, had turned her attention to the particular style of dress everyone in the room but her and the small blonde man seemed to have.

"What is it with you men and your fancy coats? And almost all of the time, they're long sweepy coats!"

"I know!" said the small blonde man.

"What?" The Doctor looked temporarily lost for words. She gestured.

"All you men and the coats! You've got to have a coat because you think it makes such an impression! There are so many other ways to make an impression. Like heels, or lipstick. Though, come to think of it, on you that would probably make the wrong impression."

"You're right about that. And the coats," mused the small blonde man.

"Depends on the time period and situation, for the lipstick," said Jack.

"Look, what part of emergency don't you understand?" said the Doctor.

"Well, you see, to them it just looks like a normal day at the office," said Harmony. "Now, Mr. Sociopath and Friend, will you go back to the waiting room quietly, or do I have to call security on you again? And you, Doctor, will you sit down and describe these relative dimensions of yours so I can finish your paperwork?"

* * *

A/N: I just love the idea that all of this is totally normal for Angel. Now I understand why Harmony spent so much time on the show! Despite being annoying, she's very fun to write. I'm particularly fond of the way she emphasizes Jean Grey's hair and expression over the small matter of her telekinesis. And I had to bring in something about the way every show I watch seems to have men with long sweepy coats. I forgot about Sherlock at first, so I hope he doesn't seem too forced.


	3. John Sees the Other Worlds

A/N: I'm actually not sure if this goes here or as a separate story. I know I said this wasn't a place to put random crossovers, and this pretty much is just a single crossover. The other fandoms feel somewhat forced and are easily deleted. But it does tie to the events of Wedding, so I'm posting it here, and if you feel I'm being a hypocrite, tell me so and I'll move it to its own story. Also, it's huge for a chapter. It kind of exploded. It's four times-ish the size of the others.

**Warnings:** Triggery material. Farce mixed with angst. **Self-harm, suicide, drug use.** One swear. Hinted-at preslash. If you think I should up the rating, let me know.

Also for SnarkyHunter, who requested bored!Sherlock, but it might be a little dark for her tastes.

* * *

In Which John Sees the Other Worlds

Main Fandoms: Doctor Who, Sherlock

Making a Guest Appearance: Harry Potter, Sherlock Holmes (the books), The Lion King, 101 Dalmations.

* * *

"John, I'm bored," whined Sherlock, propping his feet up on the end of the couch and steepling his fingers on his chest.

"Pity," remarked his flatmate, who was reading one of Sherlock's apiology texts with an expression of raptness, never mind that raptness was a most peculiar expression for that face. Sherlock pondered why that was, if it was the face, the body, or the personality. Personality first, he decided, followed by body, because it offended his culturally engrained social norms (even he had _some_) for someone wearing that combination of clothes with that style of hair and those glasses to look so interested in a PhD-level textbook. Being Sherlock, he said so.

"Oi, this coat was a present from Janice Joplin! And I look good in a suit! The shoes are practical, you should try trainers sometime, all the running around London you do, you would think you'd go for comfort, but no, got to look the part, no matter that you're the only consulting detective in the world and you can make up the part as you go along."

Sherlock had nothing to say to this, so he didn't, which prevented John from having to make up an explanation for the glasses, which he didn't actually need, but only wore to make himself look clever, never mind the fact he was probably the cleverest human being alive, though Sherlock came a close second. On second thought, since John was only half human, Sherlock's throne remained untaken.

"I wish I had a gun," Sherlock remarked after a moment.

"I don't. Nasty things."

"It might be less boring than not having a gun."

"And who are you planning to shoot? Me? Mrs. Hudson? Ron Weasley? Some inanimate object that will have to be replaced, not to mention the explaining you'll have to do when someone comes round to find out what the gunshots were about?"

Sherlock did not reply to this, either, merely wished he had a less sensible and more sympathetic flatmate.

"Well, as I haven't got a case or a gun, and you're not being helpful, I'm going out," he said icily, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. He swung himself off the couch, stalked into his bedroom, and returned with a large wad of cash, several hundreds visible before he stuffed it all into his own wallet, placed the wallet in his coat pocket, and retrieved a flathead screwdriver from the tool drawer. He opened the cupboard and pried off the backboard with the screwdriver, revealing a sheet of foam with one indentation in it, an indentation just big enough to hold a hypodermic needle, which he removed and placed in his other coat pocket, before putting the coat on.

He turned, and John was standing in his way, glasses gone, face now deadly serious, and if his rapt expression looked peculiar with his outfit, his serious expression was almost painful. A face, a person accustomed to so much joy in the simplest pleasures, should not look at Sherlock as though these few minutes of activity have caused him to remember all the worst parts of life. Even worse, he looked, not worried about Sherlock, not even scared for him, but as though he knew exactly the kind of dark places Sherlock had been and didn't know how to stop him from going there again.  
"Sit," said John Smith in a voice to go with his expression, and Sherlock sat in the easy chair. He hadn't yet decided whether he was actually going to go visit his dealer, or if he only wanted to make John think he was and stop reading that damn textbook and entertain him, but he wished he hadn't. Even having John's full attention wasn't worth that expression.

John stalked outside and stared up at the sky.

"DOCTOR!" he roared, with more ferocity than Sherlock had ever heard from him, and he could hear clearly, since John had left the door open. There was a moment's silence, and then a funny bubbling, pulsating noise, and there was a blue police box standing on their front porch, and Sherlock forgot all about staying put and ran outside to see.

"She always knows," John was muttering, running a hand up and down the box. The door opened, and a man who looked exactly like John jumped out. He promptly looked completely confused, and Sherlock couldn't, for once, blame him.

"I need to borrow the TARDIS," said John, or that was what Sherlock thought he said.

"Interdimensional chaos, and you need to borrow the TARDIS now?" asked the other man.

"It's the only time possible, you know that. Think about it, Doctor. All time is collapsed around a single set of events. How can there be any fixed points now?"

The man called Doctor seemed to consider the suggestion. He darted back into his box, and Sherlock adjusted his position to see what could be so interesting inside such a small box. He gasped.

There was an entire room inside that tiny box, room enough for twenty people to fit comfortably, and the Doctor was flicking switches on what seemed to be a large central console. Sherlock followed him inside, trying to look at everything at once.

_Material of walls—texture/color/density combination doesn't match any metal offhand. Console—contains enough switches, buttons, sensors, and output screens to fly an airplane and more. Very haphazard design from initial observation, analysis of the workings of the machine might make an order more apparent. Doctor—looks exactly like John, down to his mannerisms. Fascinating._

"For a machine to just appear like that, not to mention being, well, bigger on the inside, it would have to break several rather important laws of physics," he said, trying to sound conversational and less shaken than he was.

"The universe is a lot more complicated than you lot have figured out yet," responded the Doctor, and turned his attention back to John. "You're right, all fixed points except the one currently being experienced are manipulatable to a much greater degree."

"Excellent. You stay here and explain the flaws in the so-called laws of physics to Sherlock here, and I'll be back in a jiff."

"I want to stay here! This is far less boring than sitting at home!"

"John Watson?" asked the Doctor knowingly. John Smith nodded. "Over Pompeii?"

"Pompeii can't be fixed. John Watson can; he just needs a bit of convincing."

"You can visit Pompeii in this thing? How on earth does it work?"

"She," corrected the Doctor, "She's alive, you know. And as for how she works, well, Einstein rather limited himself by writing his relativity equation in terms of lightspeed. It can be achieved, just with technology rather beyond yours, and the universe doesn't explode when you do it, but rather interesting other things happen. Come on, I'll tell you all about it."

The Doctor walked out of the box, and Sherlock hesitated.

"He's ensuring your future happiness, you can't help," said the Doctor. "I'll throw in debunking the second law of thermodynamics for you."

This won the scientist over, and he followed the Doctor back to his flat. John Smith, on the other hand, was glad he remembered enough of being the Doctor to fly the TARDIS to within a couple of metres of where John Watson was walking down the road.

"Oi! John Watson!"

The shorter man looked round in surprise, and his mouth dropped open at the sight of the TARDIS.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

"A time machine. Now come on, I promised not to be long, and the short jumps are harder to manage."

"What do you want?"

John Smith had the terrible thought that this might be the wrong version of John Watson.

"Do you live with a flatmate called Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, have you read my blog or something?" Well, that was something.

"And are you considering walking out on him?"

He received a shocked look for that; this wasn't the sort of thing one talked about to English people, but he really couldn't afford to beat around the bush.

"How do you know that?"

"I know Sherlock very well, John, and I've come to convince you not to go."

"How do you know Sherlock? He hasn't got friends." This last was said bitterly, as if it was the sort of memory that was forgiven during daylit frames of mind, but returned to haunt during the darker ones.

"I know that when he's bored, he lies on the couch, asks you to entertain him, considers shooting things to relieve the boredom, and in the past, he's turned to drugs. I know Gregory Lestrade cleaned him up, but there were several lapses, which stopped when you arrived. I know he went to Cambridge, that he's studied everything from the effect of most readily accessible chemicals on human flesh and keratin to forensics, weather patterns, and beekeeping, but the only thing that really works to relieve the boredom is solving cases. That's your Sherlock Holmes, right?"

John Watson stared at him for a moment. John Smith hoped he hadn't noticed the lack of an answer to his question.

"Why do you care if I leave him or not? He doesn't need me. He was fine without me before, and he'll be fine without me again."

"No, he won't," said John Smith sadly. "Let me show you."

And, he thought, it was a testament to this man's loyalty to his friend that he followed John into the TARDIS with no more convincing needed.

John Smith let John Watson look around while he whispered to the TARDIS and set several dials. The dials, he thought, anyone could have done, but it was the fine-tuning that made this sort of feat impossible for anyone who wasn't at least part Time Lord. The TARDIS took off. John Watson, meanwhile, was making a last-ditch effort to justify himself. "Look, you can't blackmail me into staying. He's mad. He leaves body parts lying around, and plays his violin when he knows I've had a long day, and he's rude and insufferable and he treats me like an object, a robot to fetch tea and compliment him. I can get the adrenaline rush some other way. Maybe I'll train to be a firefighter. Why him?"

John Smith looked at him sadly and landed the TARDIS.

"Open the door," was all he said. John Watson stared for a moment, and then obeyed.

They were in a house. A small child with curly, dark hair was standing in the room. John thought it looked like Sherlock, but the child was wearing a dress. Her mother stood in front of her, straightening the child's clothes and clucking approvingly.

"But I don't want to wear a dress, Mum! They're not practical!"

"Why do you care so much about practical, darling? You won't need to outrun anybody at school. And you look so pretty! You like looking pretty, don't you?"

"Yes," the child muttered. "Can't I look pretty without a dress?"

John Smith pulled a lever, and the scene blurred and dissolved. They were now in a school science lab. Girl-Sherlock, several years older, was perched on a stool, examining something in a tray with a magnifying glass. A decorative shirt and a pretty headband were somewhat at odds with jeans, a lab coat, and a short, practical haircut.

"All right, Sherlock," said the professor with an air of having to put up with a lot from this child. "Everyone else is gone. You need to start tidying up."

"But it's so fascinating! You can see the blood vessels on the viscera. Is this the duodenum, Professor?"

Dissolve. A guidance counsellor's office. Sherlock and her mother sat, Sherlock with arms crossed stubbornly, across from a woman in uniform.

"I'm concerned that Sherlock doesn't interact with the other children, Mrs. Holmes."

"I do interact with them," said Sherlock mutinously. "It's they that don't want to interact with me."

"Her teachers report that she drives them away with caustic commentary about secrets she somehow knows about their lives, as well as a fascination with science, particularly the more…repellent aspects."

"I don't understand," said Sherlock's mother.

"I told Emily Browns that I knew her shirt was stolen when she teased me about my clothes," said Sherlock, crossing her arms still more tightly over her chest and glaring at the table.

"You accused her…?"

"It's not accusing if it's true! You could see the anti-theft device still on it! And she knew it was there, she was covering it up with a scarf! Anyone could have figured it out."

"But you did it to get back at her?" Sherlock had no answer to this. Her mother turned instead to the counsellor.

"What do you mean about the science? Surely she would make friends with the other kids who like the subject, not drive people away?"

"Her science teacher reports that she stays late for laboratories and talks loudly and enthusiastically about subjects like, well, viscera, faeces, body fluids and such. Furthermore, she asks many questions and corrects the other students when they give wrong or incorrect answers."

Sherlock now looked on the verge of tears, but she bit her lip, closed her eyes, and took a breath. The Johns watched as calmness returned to her face.

"She turned it off," said John Watson in wonder. "This is where she learns to turn her emotions off."

"So far, her timeline is very similar to your Sherlock's," said John Smith. "The only real difference is her struggle with clothing."

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't noticed?" He drew the lever across again, and the scene dissolved. Sherlock, now a teenage girl, was in the middle of a department store, followed by her mother, who looked tired.

"Please, Sherlock, just pick something."

"There's nothing right."

"There are lots of clothes. Surely there's something that's close to right. Why does it matter, anyway? Why do you care so much about your clothes and makeup, but not jewellery? And you never wear skirts, or grow your hair long. It would look so pretty."

"Not practical. Jewellery could get caught on things, which would hurt if I was in a fight or something. Hair can be pulled. You can't do anything in skirts." Sherlock had the tone of having explained this a million times.

"But if you were truly practical, you'd wear T-shirts without makeup! I don't understand." Sherlock whirled.

"That isn't practical, either! Nobody listens to you if you look like a mouse. They only listen if you're pretty. I have to be pretty, but not completely prevented from doing anything useful, like I would be in a skirt. It's so damn hard to get it right!" She was close to yelling now, and John Watson nodded.

"That's why my Sherlock wears suits. I never thought about how hard it would be to do what he does if he didn't fill a room, striding in wearing Armani and a great big coat. If nobody noticed him, how would he manage? It must be so frustrating for her, trying to strike that balance. I mean, suits aren't the most practical thing for chasing criminals, but much better than heels and skirts."

John Smith nodded and the scene dissolved. It took a while to re-form this time.

"With a woman's smaller stature and lesser strength, she doesn't have the strength to back up her natural bluster," said John Smith quietly. The scene reformed briefly, and they caught a glimpse of a young woman Sherlock being beaten by several men behind what seemed to be a bar. She was doing her utmost to fight back, but they had overpowered her by sheer strength, size, and numbers. The scene dissolved again, and they watched as Sherlock iced her bruises in what seemed to be her house. Her face had a terrible, deadened expression on it.

"She never told anyone her deductions again, much less used them as a weapon," said John Smith.

"But…it's all she has," said John. "That's what Sherlock is, in any form." He had a terrible feeling about this. John Smith only nodded and urged the TARDIS onward. The next scene forced John Smith to rush over and pull John Watson back from exiting the TARDIS as Sherlock, lying on a bed, dragged a knife down her arm, making small, rhythmic cuts.

"You can't save her, John!" he cried. "She's not your Sherlock! She never met you, because she never went to work for Lestrade and never met Mike Stamford!" He succeeded in pulling John away from the door and slammed it shut. John Watson slumped against the wall of the TARDIS, who hummed comfortingly.

"What happened to her?" he whispered.

"One day she cut too deep and bled out. She didn't want to die, but they ruled it a suicide."

"She could have told them it wasn't. Like mine. That's what Sherlock does," he repeated.

"Not all of them," said John Smith quietly. He stroked the TARDIS wall with his free hand, and she finished rematerializing. He opened the door again.

"Mum!" howled a young boy, rummaging through a fridge. "We're out of butter!"

"No, we're not," came a tired sigh.

"We are!"

Mrs. Holmes entered the scene and plucked the butter from the fridge.

"As they say, if it was a snake, it would have bitten you," she said, handing it to Sherlock. He stared at it.

"It wasn't there before, I swear!"

"Mm-hm."

Dissolve. Now the boy was rummaging through an oddly shaped closet. It had three bars, one above the other on the left side, and just a single bar on the right.

"Mum! I only see your black vest."

"Did you try all three bars?"

"Three?" He turned and looked. "Oh. There's a whole bar I didn't see." He produced a cream vest from the bottom bar and dashed away, hollering, "Found it!"

John Watson turned to John Smith, but said nothing. His eyes, though, spoke pain and disbelief.

"This is Sherlock without his gift," confirmed John Smith. "His Asperger's Syndrome is more pronounced than ever, and he throws himself into his chemistry, science taking the throne that case solving has in your world."

Sherlock walked through what was presumably the corridor of his high school, apparently lost in thought, though his eyes pointed straight ahead.

"Sherlock!" An elderly man in a lab coat hurried up to him. He jumped.

"Doctor Connors! I didn't see you."

Dissolve. Home again. Sherlock was pacing in that familiar fashion, as his mother watched sadly.

"They said she committed suicide. I don't understand. If someone hated life that much, wouldn't people be able to tell?"

"No, honey," said his mother. "Sometimes the people who are unhappiest seem the most joyful."

"That hasn't changed," said John Watson. "He wouldn't know if a person was suicidal, he'd only be able to tell how they did it afterwards."

Dissolve. Same room, same people, but now clearly in the middle of an argument.

"I just mean that you should do other things, Sherlock! All this focus on your schoolwork and no play isn't good for you!"

"I haven't got anything else!" shouted young Sherlock. "Other people don't like me. I don't know how to make them like me. I'm not good at anything else."

"You must know how to tell when someone is getting upset with you. Everyone can."

"I can't! I've no idea that what I've said is wrong until they storm off! And I never find out why it was wrong!"

"He hides it so well in my world," said John Watson. "It's a symptom of Asperger's. I always thought he must have some form of autism, but we never talked about it. It wouldn't have made a difference, really."

John Smith shut the door.

"Wait. What happens to this one?"

"He commits suicide," said John Smith quietly. John Watson gaped. "He never met you," John Smith continued. "Again, he had no reason to meet Mike Stamford, and thus no reason to meet you." He turned back to the console and pressed things as John Watson looked on in horror.

"You say that like I'm the thing that makes a difference," he managed at last. "But both of these Sherlocks died before they were even old enough to meet me, right?"

"Yes, well, that is true. But that's not the point. Yours is one of Sherlock Holmes' best possible worlds. If you walk away now, it will be yet another one of the bad ones. Open the door."

John Watson did with steady hands and a look of pain. Outside it was his Sherlock, lying on the couch with a handful of drug supplies. John Smith darted across the floor and grabbed John Watson again before he could rush out.

"This hasn't happened yet!" he hissed and shut the door again. "The way to prevent this one is to stop it ever coming to this. In another world, I am Sherlock's flatmate, and he still threatens to turn to drugs when he's bored. In another, you and he lived in the Victorian era, and you were the best of friends. You never reached your full potential together, but he lived. In this one, if you go back to him, you will have the happy ending that no other version of Sherlock has."

"It's still emotional blackmail!" protested John Watson, but John Smith knew he was close to giving in.

"This is the best of your worlds, too, John Hamish Watson. This is the world where your life after Afghanistan means something, where you find a way to be your own person again, and it all revolves around staying with Sherlock Holmes. He will bring you the greatest happiness, the most intense passion, the greatest love, of any life you have ever had."

"You can't tell me it's all good," said John Watson. "After all, he's infuriating enough that I was thinking of leaving."

John Smith dropped his head. "No, it isn't all good. He's infuriating, yes, frustrating, and impossible, at least you will describe him so many times. And he will all but destroy you with pain. But it will be worth it. I promise you it will be worth it in the end."

John Watson nodded, and John Smith flipped a switch.

"One question. Why didn't you show me my other lives first? Why make it all about him and tell me it's for my own good too at the end?"

"Tampering with established events is strictly forbidden. I can't show a man his own timeline."

"But you know Sherlock will worm it out of me even if I promise to keep quiet—"

"No, he won't, because time is wibbly right now—that's why no one noticed we'd appeared in their time stream—and once the Doctor rights it, you won't remember I showed you any of this." He paused. "I'm hoping the truth of it will stick even without the context."

"You spent all that time convincing me to go back to Sherlock in hopes that I'll remember the abstract decision even though I won't remember meeting you? That sounds like a pretty long shot, mate."

"Well, yeah," agreed John Smith. "But I'm brilliant at making stuff happen that shouldn't."

"Why bother? What do two men matter in the context of the universe? I mean, you can time travel, see the big picture. Why do you care whether Sherlock and I live happily ever after?"

"Ah, John," sighed John Smith. "People don't become less important when you can see the big picture. Just the opposite. When you can see all of time and space, you find out that people, the little things, are the only things that matter." He leaned against the TARDIS door and it opened onto the spot from which John Watson had been picked up. John Watson stared at him for a moment.

"Well. I'll be going, then," he said. John Smith nodded. "It was a pleasure, Mr…?"

"Smith. John Smith."

"Mr. Smith." And with that, John Watson turned away and began to walk toward home. On the way, he broke into a run, jumping a meerkat riding a warthog that trotted into his path and dodging a pack of Dalmatians without looking twice at them in his eagerness to get home.


	4. Rose Hathaway Is a Viper Pilot

A/N: I just had this weird vision from one of my favorite books. "Rose Hathaway, Viper Pilot." I love Rose and the Vampire Academy books. Rose is such a real person to me, unlike so many heroes who are like shells the reader can step into and become. You do not necessarily see yourself in Rose, but you want to know her. Anyway. I had this odd idea that she would be a viper pilot and love Kara Thrace. It's a bit odd because it kind of gives the idea that Rose is attracted to her teachers rather than people, but that's not what I meant to do at all. I'm not particularly happy with the way she comes out, perhaps because she's written in first person in the books, but I rather like the way I do Starbuck.

* * *

In Which Rose Hathaway Is a Viper Pilot

Main Fandoms: Battlestar Galactica, Vampire Academy

Making a Guest Appearance: Lord of the Rings/Hobbit, Avengers, Doctor Who

* * *

Rose Hathaway flew loops in space, laughing almost hysterically in delight. Starbuck laughed with her over the intercom.

"Steady, Guardian. It's only your first day in the seat."

"It's amazing!" said Rose. "How do you ever do anything else?"

"Well, eventually you need to stretch your legs. And eat and sleep. Come on, nuggets, back inside."

One by one, the viper pilot trainees coasted into the entrance tube, Starbuck guiding them.

"Steady on, Ares. Pull up just a hair. Good. Now Guardian. Cut your thrusters…now. Pull down, yes, just like that."

Back on the hangar deck, Rose sought out her instructor, and spotted her talking to Captain Adama.

"Ares is a little rough, but with work he'll be fine. Timber is iffy. If he doesn't shape up within the next couple of sessions, I'm failing him. Guardian is a natural."

Flushing with pride, Rose dodged a line of hobbit mechanics and ducked back behind a viper, not wanting to be seen eavesdropping.

"What are you still doing here? Get back to work, you nugget."

"Yes, Captain Romanoff." Rose nodded and hurried away from the stern CAG before her mouth could betray her. She found Lissa and Dimitri in the training room, sparring gently. Lissa, although a superb mechanic, had nowhere near the fighting ability Dimitri, a Marine, did.

"Captain Thrace thinks I'm a natural!" she gasped out, distracting Lissa and enabling Dimitri to clock his opponent in the head.

"Ow! Time!" squawked Lissa, rubbing her head. Dimitri gave in, grinning good-naturedly.

"Fancy a match, Guardian?"

"Yes," said Rose immediately, turning away to get her gloves.

"Hold on," protested Lissa. "You haven't told us your story yet."

Rose weighed satisfying Lissa's curiosity versus her own need for a good sparring match, and decided the sparring could wait.

"I overheard her telling Captain Adama."

"You mean you eavesdropped?" snarked Dimitri.

"Shut up, Comrade. No, honestly. Although Widow caught me. She probably thought I was."

"Do you call _her_ Comrade?" inquired Dimitri.

"Naw, that's your special nickname. Anyway, she only gave Ares a passable and I thought he was good, so I must be even better."

"How was your landing? A lot of pilots look like great fliers until you force them to land."

"Perfect," snarked Rose. Lissa and Dimitri rolled their eyes simultaneously. "Come on, can we fight already?"

Lissa made a shooing motion, and Rose ran to her rack for her gloves and a change of clothes. Back in the gym, Lissa was gone, and Dimitri was pacing as though she'd taken hours. Rose hopped once on the balls of her feet and attacked. Dimitri was strong, but Rose was faster, and she ducked his punches, spinning around him with the perfect control she'd need to extend to her viper if she wanted to be a real pilot. Eventually, she and Dimitri both began to tire, and when Dimitri actually tripped over his own feet, she called for time.

"Draw?"

"Draw," he agreed. Sweat was pouring off both of them and their gym clothes were completely soaked, so without discussion, they headed off to the showers. Neither of them noticed the blonde viper pilot watching. This might have been considered an inexcusable lack of perception on the part of a Marine and a martial artist turned pilot, but as the blonde viper pilot in question, top gun and one-time CAG, utterly failed minutes later to use her common sense and ability to predict movements, no one spoke of anyone's failings that day.

Rose and Dimitri split at the showers, and Rose indulged in what was, for her, a long shower—a full ten minutes, almost. She got out, dried off, and changed into the spare clothes. She was just leaving the showers and on her way into the main part of the ship when she heard voices. And one of them was Kara Thrace's.

"I wish Rose hadn't gone into pilot training."

What?

"Kara—" That was Captain Adama.

"I'm fraked if she isn't the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, Lee. Have you seen her?"

"She's a looker," Adama agreed tentatively. Rose smirked to herself.

"Well, yeah. You'd have to be blind not to notice that. But the way she carries herself, the way she stares challenges in the face. I wanted her before she ever joined up. But now I'm her teacher, and, frak, Lee, I've been there."

"The mistake you made with Zak was not being honest with him," said Adama. "If you just learn from that, the thing with Zak won't happen again. And besides, it won't. You said Rose is a natural."

"She was born to be a viper pilot," said Starbuck, and Rose felt her heart jump.

"Well, then."

"I'm still her teacher. And you know what's frakking ironic? That just makes her more attractive. The way she flies that viper, and then the way she got so excited? It was like I'd given her this amazing gift." Starbuck sighed and ceased to be poetic. "I want to kiss her or jump her every time I look at her, and not only is it inappropriate, I have no idea what she's thinking. And I can't just ask her out for drinks, she'd report me to the old man. I can't read her at all."

"There is that," agreed Adama. Rose had heard enough. She rounded the corner to where they could see her.

"Frak that," she said eloquently, and pressed her lips to those of the startled pilot.

Let no one say that Kara Thrace has ever been out of her element when being kissed. In a second, Rose felt herself being pulled against Starbuck, hands at her waist and caressing her still-wet head, lips kissing hers back passionately. After a moment, they broke apart, and Starbuck's eyes raked Rose's body. Rose became acutely aware of how her clothes clung to her damp body. Kara's hands were still running through her hair.

"Don't cut it off," she said suddenly. "I know most of us women do, but don't you dare." Rose grinned predatorily.

"Yes, Captain," she said, then regretted it at once. Starbuck's hands dropped, and she looked frustrated.

"Look, Guardian—"

"No. You want me, I heard that. And I want you. I think you're incredible. I'm capable of making my own decisions, Starbuck."

There was a small pause, and then, "Kara," said the other woman quietly. Rose heard the unwritten explanation and understood. Call signs were for work, not relationships.

"Rose," she answered. Kara grinned at her for a moment.

"Battle stations. Set Condition One throughout the ship. Cybermen are attacking the pyramid," came over the intercom, and Rose shrugged.

"Business as usual?" she said, and Kara squeezed her hand for a second before they left to defend their ship.


End file.
